BY HERMAN M. LAGON
THERE is something heartbreaking yet numbing about reading a Grade 9 essay that begins with “Win I grown, i wanna 2 be nars.” This is not just a spelling error or a typing mistake. It is the voice of a learner four to five years behind the expected reading and writing level, as reported in the Second Congressional Commission on Education’s (EDCOM 2) Year Two Report.
These are not isolated stories. Across public classrooms in the Philippines, many students cannot read fluently, comprehend meaningfully, or write coherently, even after a decade in school. When words fail to take root, the entire futures fail to blossom. And we, as a nation, lose our voice—slowly, quietly, devastatingly.
The latest Functional Literacy, Education, and Mass Media Survey (FLEMMS 2024) revealed an even more sobering truth: more than 18 million Filipino high school graduates are functionally illiterate. That means they may have completed twelve years of school but are still unable to fully comprehend a basic story, process written information, or apply it in everyday situations. One out of five senior high school graduates cannot read with understanding. These are not just cold statistics—they are your neighbors, your coworkers, your children. They graduate with diplomas that promise readiness, only to step into a world for which they are painfully unprepared. And the irony is cruel: we celebrate graduation rites, but quietly mourn the meaning lost between the lines of their certificates.
The learning crisis in the Philippines has morphed into a literacy disaster. EDCOM 2 confirmed what many teachers have long sensed: Filipino students, even those in high school, often struggle with Grade 3-level competencies. The Functional Literacy, Education, and Mass Media Survey (FLEMMS) puts the literacy gap starkly—only 31% of college students are functionally literate. Meaning, even those who make it to tertiary education lack the basic skills of reading, writing, and understanding texts critically. This is not just a matter of failing tests; it’s about being unprepared for life. These are the same young people who are expected to lead families, businesses, and barangays tomorrow.
But while the numbers are grim, wallowing in despair is not an option. The truth is, we already know what the problems are: massive dropout rates, outdated textbooks, teaching loads that mismatch specializations, paper-pushing teachers, classrooms that flood when it rains, and children who would rather work than go to school because lugaw does not pay the bills. The better question is: What can we do with what we already have? Instead of waiting for the perfect solution or a miracle budget, perhaps it is time to turn to smaller, community-based reforms and courageous leadership—one school, one barangay, one child at a time.
Take, for example, the concept of “porous education” raised by EDCOM 2 Executive Director Karol Yee. He argues that students should not be penalized for leaving school, especially if life demands it. Instead, systems should allow them to return easily. Why not offer weekend and evening classes in barangay halls? It’s not expensive. We already have thousands of licensed but unemployed teachers in the country. Partner them with LGUs. Tap community libraries, or even sari-sari stores willing to lend space for literacy corners. These micro-solutions, when multiplied, can go macro over time. They do not fix everything, but they open the doors wider—and that’s a start.
Equally important is improving the alignment between what future teachers learn and what they actually teach. EDCOM 2 found that 62% of high school teachers are teaching subjects outside their college specialization. This is not a minor clerical error—it is a systemic flaw. How can a PE major suddenly teach Chemistry without enough training or time to adjust? It’s like asking a tricycle driver to fly a plane. There’s bravery, sure, but not necessarily safety. The solution is not just in hiring more teachers but in hiring the right ones. DepEd and CHED must work together to match teacher supply with curricular demand. We need to post specific job listings—“Grade 6 Math Teacher”—not just the generic “Teacher I.” It’s a logistical change, yes, but it’s also a moral one.
Even our most promising students are not spared. EDCOM 2 revealed that only 1.03% of our best and brightest receive government support, far below what China (3%) or even Australia (10%) provides. Half of those who qualify for Philippine Science High School are turned away due to a lack of slots. What kind of country neglects its gifted youth and then wonders why brain drain happens? Support must be holistic. Offer full scholarships, mentorships, enrichment classes, and not just for STEM students. Talents grow where there is light—and in education, light often means attention and investment.
Infrastructure remains another elephant in the classroom. As of late 2024, 1,500 schools still have no electricity, and 1,000 have no toilets. These are not just numbers. These are children learning to read by flashlight, girls skipping school during their period because there’s no clean bathroom, teachers using payong to shield books from leaky ceilings. There is something deeply wrong when malls are built in weeks while schools take years to finish. Instead of building more classrooms the same way we did 20 years ago, why not use modular and prefabricated designs? EDCOM 2 suggests this already. If mid-rise buildings can rise for condos, why not for classrooms?
Literacy is not just about reading books. It is about having books to read. The Matatag curriculum, with all its good intentions, has struggled to deliver even half of the promised textbook titles. Imagine implementing a new curriculum with no teaching guides, no learner’s modules, and no digital backup. Teachers are not magicians. And yet, many rise above the chaos, printing materials from their own salaries, recycling old worksheets, even narrating stories from memory. That is grit. That is sacrifice. But grit should not be an excuse for systemic neglect. Let us allow teachers to teach by removing the red tape and giving them real tools.
This brings us to the most difficult truth: education needs money, and our government has not been giving enough. For over a decade, the Philippines has only allocated an average of 3.2% of its GDP to education, well below the global standard of 4% to 6% (UNESCO, 2015). Some may argue that money is not everything, and they are right. But money means roofs that do not leak, books that do not fall apart, and teachers who do not moonlight as encoders to make ends meet. We do not need to throw money at the problem. We need to direct it wisely. Increase funding where it matters most: early childhood education, teacher training, and community-based literacy initiatives.
This crisis may be complex, but it is not beyond repair. We have seen public school teachers create mini-libraries from recycled materials, student leaders tutor their classmates for free, and mayors provide daily feeding programs out of their own funds. These are not grand reforms. They are human ones. And perhaps that is where hope lives—in small but sincere acts of care. Much like the formation work we experience in Jesuit or community-centered schools, the call is not just to learn but to become. To form persons who are competent, compassionate, and committed to the common good. No system, no matter how broken, is beyond repair if people still believe in its worth.
To rebuild literacy in the Philippines is not just a technical challenge. It is a moral one. If we believe that every child is worth teaching, then every drop of effort—every hour spent reading aloud, every module revised for clarity, every class held under a mango tree—matters. The crisis is real, yes, but so is the courage of those facing it head-on. What we need now is not a miracle, but a movement—one that starts with listening, continues with investing, and ends with children who can read, write, and dream. If we want a future that makes sense, we must first ensure our students can understand the present. Because in a nation where children cannot read, the future is not just delayed—it is denied.
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Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.
